


death without weeping

by Anonymous



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Cancer, M/M, Mentions of Prostitution, child!zitao, slightly dark i'm so sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 17:35:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20178121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Yifan is a single dad. Having a child right after finishing high school, he didn't have much job options, except for working as an escort in a rundown bar. He meets his high school best friend (love of his life) Junmyeon again—who just happened to be his child's new oncologist.





	death without weeping

**Author's Note:**

> remember rain's first kdrama, _sang-doo! let's go to school_? this fic is heavily inspired by that, but because i can't write anything light, well, _this_ happened. 
> 
> this fic was also heavily inspired by the cancer institute of the philippine general hospital, my experiences interning in it, and my four years residing in its vicinity. manila will always, always be a home for me, but it has always been far from perfect, so i didn’t even bother sugarcoating anything. 
> 
> the title was taken from _death without weeping: the violence of everyday life in brazil_, an ethnography by nancy scheper-hughes. 
> 
> sorry i’m rambling. please feel free to comment below!

> _Dear City, explain your irreverence: in you, rain is a visitor with nowhere to go. Where is the ground that knows only the love of water? Where are the passageways to your heart? _
> 
> _ We look for someone to blame and turn to you, wretched city, because we are men and women of honor, we feed our children three meals a day, we never miss an election. The only explanation is you, dear city. This is the end of our discussion. There is no other culprit. _
> 
> (excerpt from Conchitina Cruz’s _ Dear City_, published in 2005)

* * *

The thin fabric of his shirt clung onto his sweaty back as he took the tray that Heechul slid to him on the counter. Even the normally jovial man was tired, it would seem, his eyes drooping as he nodded at Yifan, before pursing his lips to sign to the table he was to serve. It was late in the evening, and the humid heat adding to the cramped surroundings surely didn’t help. Yifan clenched his jaw to stifle his emerging yawn. Acknowledging his exhaustion wouldn’t help his bone-weary body either.

_ Moonlight _ was not a luxurious place to be. It was a sketchy bar settled in the middle of a street lined with other sketchy bars, hiding behind the assorted glowing and gleaming neon signs that covered the bar’s façade. None of the signs helped separate the establishment from the rest, however, making it virtually unrecognizable from each other. You probably wouldn’t even know of the bar’s name if it weren’t for the horribly designed tarpaulin that bore the bar’s name as it hung from the eaves of the bar front, with stock photos of white women in scantily-clad clothing smiling at each not-so-innocent passerby. The heavy, ornately sculpted wooden sign that said _ Moonlight_, with a huge full moon in place of one of the O’s, sat grimly underneath the window at the bar’s façade, rotting and covered with dirt. 

There was a joke somewhere whose punchline connected that sign to the state of the bar, but Yifan was too tired to think. Instead, he looked at the two patrons who ordered three glasses of mojitos, as they waved him over. _ Three. _A heavy weight settled in his stomach, as he winced inwardly. He swallowed it down, though, and tried his hardest to plaster a smile—as seductive as he could—on his face as he walked his way to their booth.

“Enjoying the night?” Yifan drawled, voice low, with the exact tone that he knew beguiled many. He kept an easy smirk on his face as he put their orders on the table, cocking his head to the side to catch the pathetic dim light that the overhead lamp offered. Heechul had laughed at him before when he caught him practising that while cleaning up after the customers, but the money that Yifan knew would pad his pockets later would probably erase Heechul’s laughter. He was well aware that this wasn’t the type of job that would make his mother boast to her _ suki_s in the wet market, but _ fuck _ if he wasn’t at least going to do it well. And from the way the customers’ eyes trailed down his body, eyebrows shooting up curiously as their pupils dilated in apparent interest, _ he did well _.

Yifan knew that how the light fell on his face gave him a bit too much favor, but he has long learned the importance of taking advantage of that. He stretched out languidly across the table, wiping a rag to clean the far edge of the table, but it was only a pretense to show off the wide expanse of his shoulders, something that he knew interested many. That wasn’t the end of it, though, as he even scrubbed the table harder than he should, a move that he knew would highlight how his back muscles moved, which with how the sweat has drenched the back of his shirt, would be very much apparent.

One of the patrons, a potbellied middle-aged man still in his office clothes, likely one of the workers in the nearby government offices, hummed appreciatively as he propped his chin on his hand, elbow resting on the grimy table. His companion, a woman of a similar age, leaned back, one arm resting on top of her booth seat. Sensing Yifan’s attention on her, she spread her then-crossed legs, leering at him, as if providing him with an invitation. 

_ Jackpot_. Their interest was clear as day, and Yifan wasn’t one to jinx himself, but he had a suspicion that he was going to be a few more thousands richer tonight. He didn’t try to think of the mechanics of what he was _ actually _ about to do, but then again, he never really tried to entertain those thoughts. As Heechul had told him a long while ago, when he was first starting out, _ he shouldn_’_t. _ They were traitorous ideas, he had said, ones that didn’t help at all, except to remind him of humanity’s inherent weakness as the fear of whatever’s coming next released unsettling discomfort inside his stomach. That wasn’t the kind of encouragement that he needed if he wanted to have those additional cerulean bills lining his pocket.

So, Yifan just returned it all with an innocent smile, one that betrayed no knowledge of what they imagined next, the exact same one that he had practiced in the mirror for hours, when he was still trying to steel himself over the job that he managed to land himself in.

The man giggled at his friend’s not-so-subtle flirting, and as if playing good cop, trying to help, leaned over Yifan to stage-whisper, “Don’t mind her. The alcohol’s making her ridiculous.” He caught his friend’s eye, and shared a knowing glance at her, before wiggling a well-groomed eyebrow as if sending a message.

Yifan stilled, inwardly stumbling over his curated, rehearsed routine, unsettled with the idea of being the outsider in the little situation they were crafting all together. He wasn’t delusional, trying to claim closeness and having the gall to feel hurt about being “left out”—no, it was far from that. It was the sharp realization that he was in an uncertain situation, surrounded by two people who knew more than what they appeared like, who looked like they could do more than what was expected from them. This was probably what it felt like to see the uneven scales of power from the disadvantaged side, like a deer shriveling in the corner while the lions were loitering at the opposite corner, not even trying to stalk their prey yet because they _already knew that they’ve_ _won_. Yifan’s job and this performance that he has prepared for so long relied on power, and right now, he knew that _he didn’t have it. _

“You should never lay down all your cards,” Heechul had told him before, when he was first guiding Yifan to the mechanics of the job. But now, hearing that memory again, he wanted to be angry. He hasn’t even done anything yet, so how come he’s already lost?

The silent communication between his two customers stopped, as both of them dissolved in giggles. The man rolled his eyes before taking a long swig from his glass, while the woman continued to eye Yifan, chin haughtily pushed into the air, the challenge clear in her gaze.

She was a small woman, and he estimated that standing up, she would probably fall along his armpit. The cream shift dress that she wore didn’t do her any favors either, hugging her body close to show off her slight frame but not tightly enough that it was still appropriate for the office. As she tapped her foot against the table, Yifan noticed the simple black ballet flats that she wore. Her hair was gathered together into a messy bun perched lowly behind her head, showing off a pair of pearl studs adorning her ears. If it wasn’t for the faint lines near her mouth and the slight creases on the outward corners of her eyes, she would have looked like a high schooler trying to look mature.

There was absolutely no reason for the anxiety that was creeping into him right now, especially as he has long practiced shedding all forms of apprehension before doing this part of the job. He had an advantage of more than a foot on her, and yet he was reeling like he was about to be eaten alive.

The lady joined her friend and took a swig at her own drink. She leaned on the table, careful to only put her elbows into contact with the grimy table and primly clasped her hands together under her chin, mirroring the man. As she moved, the dim yellow light shone upon her face, and Yifan noticed the lack of makeup on her face, a sharp contrast compared to the other women that frequented their bar. They had a usual staple of customers, particularly those that requested someone like him: middle-aged, with enough money to waste on someone like him but not enough shame to be above somewhere like this, wearing clothes and makeup that scream their ultimate objective—chase and _ reclaim _ their youth. But evidently, this woman wasn’t like that.

Here was a woman comfortable with her age, smiling bright, letting the lines and freckles on her face go uncovered. She was unbothered, unapologetic, and somehow, after everything and everyone that Yifan has encountered in the course of his employment, she scared him the most. This lady did not fit into his well thought out pattern of clients, leaving him unable to predict her next move, and more importantly, unable to plan _ his _ next move. 

The traitorous rush of anxiety flooded him, and where before they were mere pricks trickling down his skin, trailing goosebumps at their wake, now they were like sandpaper on his skin, making his entire body vibrate with pain. He felt his breath hitch, as he looked into her gaze, which had never left him. On his other side, the potbellied man laughed louder, probably interpreting his stuttering breath as attraction. But from the way the lady smirked at him, mischief apparent in her eyes, Yifan knew that he wasn’t the only person in the room who knew about he was afraid.

This was a game, and despite all the practice that he did, he lost.

“I’m pretty sure I’m still more sober than you, Hyunsuk. And stop telling the hot waiter to not mind me; you probably just want him for yourself,” the lady said, making Hyunsuk snort. She turned to Yifan, and even though his attention was on her already, she trailed her fingers on his forearm to get his attention. “What do you think,” she asked, pausing to look at his nametag, “Kris? Am I too drunk? Too silly? Should you be going to my friend—” she nodded at Hyunsuk’s direction, to the man’s apparent amusement, “—instead?”

Hyunsuk gave Yifan another leer, raking his body. He licked his lips. “Well, I’m not complaining,” he said. He reached out, perfectly in the direction of Yifan’s crotch, and waved over it before seemingly deciding to tap his hip instead. 

Yifan commended himself for not flinching. But just like earlier, _ she _ looked like she knew exactly how his reactions were, smirking silently as she took another sip of her drink.

“C’mon,” Hyunsuk said. “You’ve been standing there for a while.” He cocked his head to the side, smiling softly, as if offering sympathy. Then, he pouted, eyelashes fluttering as his gaze turned coquettish. “You’re really gonna make me complain if you don’t sit with us,” he said, pointing towards the empty chair at the end of their table. 

So Yifan did, and swallowed down the uneasiness as he felt Hyunsuk’s hand stroke his knee as the lady continued to smile knowingly. He leaned back on the chair, taking the other, still untouched drink, and took a long swig, before plastering an easy, _ cocky _ smile on his face. The lady observed him with a renewed interest, but he ignored that—_he had to _. He had already lost his power game with her at first, he couldn’t bear to lose the one that dictated how fat his wallet would be later. 

Hyunsuk’s hand grew bolder, creeping into his inner thigh, squeezing it a bit. Yifan took it in his, and brought it up higher near his crotch, making the other man smile wider. On his other side, the lady gave him a more curious look, but it wasn’t because she couldn’t believe what was happening, or because she didn’t predict this too. The challenge was heavy in her eyes, daring him to continue, testing his limits.

Sure, he had lost earlier, but he couldn’t allow himself to lose even more. Or at least, he tried to convince himself that. It was the only thing that he could do, anyway. There was no lure of tempting victory anymore, but he still had no choice but to continue. 

* * *

The night was long, and in the company of his two customers, it felt even longer. Yifan stretched out, trying to shake the lingering exhaustion on his shoulders as he languidly leaned back in his chair even more, seemingly relaxed. It wasn’t like he was fooling anyone, that at least was clear to see, as Heechul gave him sympathetic looks from where the bartender dried beer glasses from the bar. 

Still, his two customers didn’t seem to have noticed anything, evidently drunker as the hours passed by, cheeks flushed and heads thrown back in laughter. Even the lady appeared to have loosened up considerably, her stares at Yifan growing less scrutinizing and looking more like arousal, a territory that he would be ashamed to claim he was familiar with, if not only for the sheer amount of money that it forebode.

The strong aftertaste of the mojito was washed by the bitter staleness of the beer that Yifan continued to drown himself in. He was far from being as inebriated as his two customers, whom despite all initial pretenses, didn’t have the same tolerance that he did. Small mercies, he’d like to believe. But as they swayed and rocked back and forth, cackling loudly, he let himself be swayed, trying to pretend that he was one of them, a friend joining with the laughter, not someone whose skin was still attacked by nervous goosebumps. 

Hyunsuk grew bolder as the night went on, stroking Yifan’s inner thigh, tracing random infinity signs which seemed to go upward near his crotch with every loop. With every circle that he traced, his eyelids would droop heavier, breath fanning nearer and nearer to Yifan as he showered him with compliment after compliment: ”_ Your hair’s so pretty,” “Were you always this handsome?” _ and Yifan’s personal favorite, “ _ God plays favorites, huh? Look at how He made you. _” If God truly played favorites, he wouldn’t have the need to chug his beer just to suppress the urge to shake the man’s traveling hand away.

She, on the other hand, remained passive, or at least, passive compared to her friend. Yifan could see that the lady was drunk, the imbalanced bobbing of her head was a feat not seen on someone sober. Somebody couldn’t be meticulous enough to fake that, anyway. Besides, why would she? There was no need for her to feign weakness; she wasn’t the hooker here. Pretending to be unbothered by the world, happily going with the flow, adjusting to all of their whims—that was _ Yifan’s _ job. 

Like what he had said earlier, his job was a game, and with the alcohol powering his system, he was self-aware enough to acknowledge that more often than not, it was a losing one. It was worse than poker when it comes to being a performer; this was a game were weakness was not just penalized, but forbidden. _ “Look weak and they’ll eat you alive,” _was what Heechul had told him before, with his very first customer. And with his other clients, the realization had come easy: no matter who—men, or women—the lust was the same. The pleasure of sex would always be at the backseat, as the thrill of power took reign. They were all the same, whether it was a typical balding office worker teeming with repression, or a bored housewife chasing her youth, it was never the sex that got them off, but the idea that a man like him, six-feet-three with a pretty face that never got him anywhere, would be right under the tips of their fingers, dancing to the tune that they set. But hey—if burying all sense of pride with fake smiles would get him a couple more thousand bills, then so be it. It wasn’t like he was going to get them anywhere else, anyway.

Hyunsuk draped one arm over Yifan’s shoulders, bringing his strong scent, a combination of cheap perfume, a day’s worth of salty sweat, and the pungent odor of beer, closer to Yifan. His stomach churned as the smell enveloped him and assaulted his senses, but he tried his hardest not to wrinkle his nose. Instead, he turned his head to the side slightly, trying to catch the drunk man’s eye, and laughed, as if he was thoroughly humored by what the man was doing. With how much his stomach was protesting, he wasn’t.

From his peripheral vision, he could see the lady looking at their scene in front of her with mild derision, her nose slightly wrinkled, but she made no move to interfere. Yifan still didn’t know her name; Hyunsuk hadn’t mentioned it even once, and asking it himself was out of the question. Acting too interested with his clients was just another surefire weapon that they’d hit him with later. As much as possible, he tried his hardest to look nonchalant and apathetic, because if he couldn’t even convince his clients that this was nothing to him, how could he continue to convince himself?

Yifan shifted slightly, subtly trying to steal a glance at the archaic clock that hung right above Heechul’s workstation. 12 AM, it had said. It was a dawn of a new day and while his day continued to refuse to be over. Only an hour had passed since he had been entertaining the two, and he knew that on a good day, he could go on for more, but he was just so _ tired. _His cheeks hurt, strained from smiling too much for the past hour, and right now, all he wanted was to shut his mind down and sleep off the anxiety that thrummed under his skin, teasing him with threats of emerging fully.

Hyunsuk hummed, then went in for the kill, grabbing Yifan’s crotch. He rubbed it roughly, like a baker kneading bread, while humming a song playfully, one that he probably made up right at that moment. It was the worst song that Yifan had ever heard, and it served as an apt soundtrack as he inwardly cursed his body for the slight jolt that it gave, and the surprised hitch of his breath as Hyunsuk continued what he was doing. 

As he felt his blood rush south, he condemned his body for betraying him, and hated every inch of the version of him who decided not to drink much earlier, desperate to maintain his composure—his _ control _ over the situation. There was nothing _ composed _ or _ in control _ with how he was reacting right now, as he struggled to continue appearing normal. How could he, when his brain felt like it was filled with blaring sirens of a thousand alarms going off, ones that he didn’t know he had? Regret filled him; he really should have drunk more, because if he did, he wouldn’t feel his cock hardening like the _ sensitive piece of shit that should have thought more_—

Perhaps she used that terrible power of hers on Yifan and read through his pretenses once again, or maybe it was just pure pity, but the woman beside him decided to put him out of his misery and clucked her tongue, getting Hyunsuk’s attention and _ thankfully _ , making him stop. She cocked her head sideways and looked at her friend like she was chastising a child, “Really, Hyunsuk? You’re enjoying this too much, aren’t you? I don’t think _ you _ paid enough for this,” she said, stressing the word carefully. As she raised one eyebrow and stared down at Hyunsuk, Yifan couldn’t help but think that he was in the outside of another of the two’s silent conversation—and frankly, he couldn’t be happier. Anything to make him stop.

And he did.

Annoyed, Hyungsuk huffed and moved away from him in an instant, leaning back in his seat with his arms crossed, returning the lady’s continuing gaze with a fierce glare. He pouted, the expression looking ridiculous on him, but he didn’t look like he was bothered by it. Yifan didn’t think he was, either, with the rush of relief flooding too much in his system, distracting him from thinking too much. All that mattered to him now was that slowly, _ at least, _ he had a shred of control again—even though he knew that it was ultimately, a farce. Still, _ small mercies _.

Hyunsuk scoffed. “Stingy, aren’t we?” he said, his glare fixed on the woman. 

She seemed undeterred by it, smirking as she took a gulp from her mojito. She shrugged. “_ I’m _ the one who paid for him, how come you’re the one who’s going to enjoy him?” she said. “You know I don’t share.”

It was the most words that Yifan had heard her speak in the entire hour that they were there, and while it was still a few—he knew that—but it was enough for him to realize that his life, at least just for this night, rested in her hands. 

The apprehension that played around earlier under his skin burst from the confines brought by his self-control, making his entire system feel like it was simultaneously into overdrive and shut down.

Then, the woman looked at him and asked, “That’s okay with you, right?” Responding to his silence, she rolled her eyes and added, “You can set the price later. And don’t worry; I’ll add something for Hyunsuk’s greed here.”

Now, everything truly shut down. He didn’t know if he was still breathing, but as Yifan took in what she said, all he could feel was not his heartbeats anymore, but the slight thumps of something else—_ control? _

_ Hope? _

Maybe God was truly playing favorites. _ Small mercies. _

* * *

As terrible as _ Moonlight _was, the small rooms that Mr. Lee, its owner, kept at the back for the sole purpose of “entertaining” guests weren’t that bad. They were sparsely furnished, but Yifan could see the practicality behind it. If your clientele were drunk and desperate, there surely wasn’t any reason why you even bother spending it on useless things, like those bed runners from the fancy hotels that he had seen on TV.

All that was in the room when they entered was a small, queen-sized bed, covered with cheap, pale pink bedsheets that Yifan just knew wouldn’t be comfortable to sleep in. But that wasn’t what they were here for, right? It was the main feature of the room, situated in the middle while an old—and if he would be completely honest—feeble-looking side table accompanied it. There was a large, maroon armchair opposite the bed, but the suspicious dark stains on it made Yifan not want to go near at least three feet away from it. So, the bed it was, then.

He moved closer to it, still remaining silent, waiting for his client to be the one to broach the conversation. He fumbled with the only thing of interest in the room, the side drawer, even though that he knew it would probably only have a box of condoms, because Mr. Lee was nothing but practical. When Yifan opened it, though, he was surprised to see a Bible accompanying it.

“I love your interior designer’s sense of humor,” his client said from behind him, making him jump a bit, as he didn’t know that she was right there. See, she didn’t even make a sound. And when he faced her, he met her curious look. It was still as intense as before, but Yifan found himself not as bothered or _ scared _ by it.

The lady raised an eyebrow at him. “So jumpy, aren’t we?” She moved closer, smirking at him. “Virgin?”

He quickly shook his head no, then stopped, becoming self-conscious by how defensive he might have appeared. It seemed like that was the case, as his client laughed at him. Her laugh was loud, piercing the still quietness of the room. It reverberated throughout the room, filling the awkward atmosphere that was previously present. Despite the volume, her laugh was melodic, not a shrill cackle or the irritating, boisterous ones that he was familiar with. It was as if her laugh was naturally loud not because her voice was truly like that, but because of the confidence that powered it. 

Oddly enough, Yifan wasn’t intimidated by it anymore. He felt… curious. This was a woman who seemed to know what she wanted, and somehow, for tonight, that was _ him _ . And now it felt like he had to step up to the challenge that she presented. That thought, as weird as it sounded, gave him comfort, as he reminded himself that _ yes, he had a job to do. _ It wasn’t about him, and it wasn’t even about _ her _ —it was about the money that she would give him after for a good performance. He had to do _ well_.

And with that, Yifan felt the familiar veil of confidence easily come over him. “Nah,” he replied. Then, he returned the woman’s smirk. “But I’m willing to convince you if you don’t want to believe me.”

The woman laughed again, this time more softly, as she sat on the bed, bouncing a little, testing it. She hummed, as if she was considering it. “Well, I could let you do that,” she said. Then she squinted her eyes at him. “But then you might charge extra, so no.” The lady had a glint of playfulness in her eyes as she tutted her tongue at him. “Don’t even bother trying to be slick with me.” She tapped her index finger at the side of her forehead. “I’m sorry to tell you but this isn’t empty.” Then, looking serious, she asked, “How much is everything, anyway? The cute bartender told me that I should ask you instead.”

Now that was a lie. _ Moonlight _ had a fixed price for their “extra services,” and everything else more than the fixed amount was optional, a tip of sorts. Yifan was well-aware of the people who liked to exploit that rule; tipping culture was not the norm in the country, and he didn’t look like a local enough to attract the foreigners, anyway. But as he looked at the lady’s smile at him, he knew that she was well-aware of this.

He couldn’t help it; he smiled back—the first real one of the night. “It depends, really. I’m assuming we’ll have a long night ahead of us?”

She laughed, nodding. She motioned for him to take off his clothes, while she started unzipping her dress, completely ignoring him as he shed his pants. That was a rarity—often clients liked to watch. But then again, this particular client was far from his normal, wasn’t she? 

Too curious for his own good, he broke his rule of never being the first to prompt questions from his clients. “But maybe I can give a discount if you tell me your name.”

She was naked now, except from a simple pair of white cotton panties. Her body was impressive for her age, especially compared to Yifan’s other clients. It didn’t look like she tried very hard to maintain that though. She was slender, like someone who was naturally thin would be, but there was a slight pudge on her stomach and a few stripes of stretch marks that Yifan could only guess was because of childbirth. But what impressed Yifan was how uncaring she appeared, especially, _ again, _ compared to his previous clients. Then again, though, who would care with his presence, anyway?

His client looked up at him, surprised, as if she never expected him to ask. That was fair. He never expected to, either.

She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, changing her mind. As she kept mum, Yifan fought the urge to fidget, part of the inherent apologetic instinct that one had when you suddenly caused a conversation to go stale.

Again, though, she put his misery to an end. The mischief twinkled in her eyes as she said, “I guess you can call me Vee.”

“That’s not your real name, isn’t it?” he asked, but he didn’t know why.

Tori allowed him to make the mistake of being too curious without reminding him of the consequences of that. “Well, is ‘Kris’ real?”

He shook his head in concession.

She took her panties all the way off, and threw it at him. Fortunately, he was able to catch it, redeeming him from looking like the mess that he was. It didn’t seem like Vee cared very much, as she put her hands on the bed and leaned back. With her chin jutted up and her chest pushed into the air, Vee was a showcase of confidence, and Yifan found himself being pulled into her.

It wasn’t even about attraction. True, Vee was a beautiful woman, but the coiling heat that usually unfurled inside his stomach and seeped down where it’s truly needed was noticeably absent as he looked at her. The curiosity that lingered at the back of his mind earlier has now fizzled into a comfortable silence, giving him a shred of stability, one that he had been missing since earlier. Perhaps, that was what it was—_ comfort _ . For the first time since Yifan dove headfirst into this world, this was the only time that he wasn’t internally giving himself a pep talk, just to force himself to _ work _. He didn’t want to jinx it, but maybe he found himself actually wanting to do this.

“So what do you want me to do?” he asked.

She smiled at him, one that while Yifan didn’t have the confidence to claim to be genuine, was at least more real than the ones she gave him earlier. A heavy sigh came out of her, as if she was relieved that he finally asked the right question.

“Well,” she said, spreading her legs, ensuring that he would get a full, unobstructed view. “I hope you know how to put that mouth of yours into use.” Scoffing, she added, “My husband doesn’t.”

* * *

Vee tripled _ Moonlight _ ’s standard base pay— _ “That’s for every orgasm you gave me tonight _ ”—and with one final peck on his cheek, decided to add another ten thousand pesos, doubling the base pay again. According to her, _ “The first two is because you’re the only one that managed to pull off long hair, and the eight thousand is because I know you have a kid.” _ He had raised his eyes at her last statement, shocked and if he were to be truly honest, _ scared _ , but Vee just waved him off. _ “Only a man who has a kid would look at a woman’s birth scars and not flinch, knowing exactly how that child came to be,” _ she had said. _ “Plus, only a man who _ loves _ his kid would do this job, anyway. _”

He didn’t dare to question her anymore, even though the questions refused to dissipate in his mind, lingering like pesky mosquitos on a summer day that begged to be swatted. How did she manage to figure it—_ him _ —out? Did Heechul say anything? And most importantly, why did she care? _ If she cared _ ? But there wasn’t any use making an effort to get his answers, nor was there any reason to even try and deny or debunk her claims. What for? She was right about everything again— _ everything about him_—as she had been for the entire night.

Yifan took the twenty-five blue bills that he earned and prayed to God that no one attempted to mug him as he went home. He didn’t know when he would ever get this lucky again.

* * *

Home for Yifan was a small bungalow right in the middle of Sampaloc, nestled in between other small bungalows whose only difference from his house were the assortment of election paraphernalia hanging from their gates and the overdue (or advanced, depending on how you looked at it) Christmas _ parols _ on the window rails. Other than that, their forms and shapes were practically uniform, thanks to the unimaginative architects who designed the government budget housing projects. It was probably a good thing that his mother thought that the overdue Christmas decorations were tacky, and the faces of corrupt politicians on their gates were dishonorable, (_“How dare they steal when they don’t even know hunger!” _) because despite the dim, flickering light of the streetlamps, Yifan was easily able to pinpoint their house.

He let out a heavy sigh, feeling the exhaustion that he had been ignoring since earlier seeping into his bones. The cheery pep that he had tried to keep was now gone, and like a child drifting into sleep, the earlier events of his night caught up to him gradually yet still all at once, making the weight on his shoulders greater than how it was just a while ago. 

Yifan knew that he was not an angel; he wasn’t claiming to be. Long gone was the conscience that screamed and thrashed in pain inside of him, burning alight with shame, after every stint of his “part-time job,” but he really didn’t think he would ever shake off the lingering bitterness that he always had whenever he went home from another session. 

His life wasn’t a soap opera. He highly doubted that he would ever have that moment in the shower where the protagonist would lean on the wall and slide down to the floor while in tears, scrubbing himself vigorously as he professed his “filthiness.” 

_ Nope _ —he wasn’t forced, he knew exactly what he was doing, and _ why _ he was doing this, but he couldn’t deny that every single time, there was a void within him that grew bigger and bigger, losing hope of being resolved in the process. Perhaps, it was just human, to have that kind of weakness, but _ God _ , was it inefficient. He didn’t have the time, the _ luxury _ of being deterred, disoriented, and thoroughly _ fucked up _by his most effective way of earning money. Still, it happened, and he has yet to find a solution for it, except probably to win the lottery. 

So much for being God’s favorite.

To be quite honest, it was probably silly for him to be feeling like this, when Vee was nothing but a great customer. In fact, his session with her earlier didn’t feel like a chore, like how it always did with the others. At the very least, Yifan didn’t feel the need to shut down his mind and let the instincts that fired his body take reign. He was _ there _ earlier, and while he wasn’t fully in control— _ because he could never be _ —he was present, not relegated to the observer role which was the only one he allowed himself to have for the others. But Yifan wasn’t going to be lie to himself; it was far from being something that he enjoyed. But then again, _ that _ wasn’t part of the job.

He bent down to slide his keys to open their gate, mentally cursing the architects who thought that having a four feet tall gate was a good idea, and his estranged father for giving him his too-long and too-rickety limbs. When he finally managed to open it, it was now a matter of trying to ensure that it didn’t creak, a great challenge considering that he never got around following his mother’s order to greasing it. Thankfully, luck was on his side, making him get through smoothly.

But when it was time for him to open the front door, it suddenly swung open, revealing Luhan’s disgruntled face. 

“It’s 3 AM, Yifan,” Luhan muttered grumpily. 

“Gee, Han. Thanks for doing what clocks can’t,” he replied, rolling his eyes. He hated it when his best friend would get like this, acting like his mother when she was probably right inside, enjoying her sleep because she trusted her _ adult _ son to manage his own life well.

But apparently Luhan was too deep into the maternal role and did what Priscilla Wu was unable to do at that moment, reaching a hand to pull on Yifan’s right ear, using it to pull him inside the house. 

“Ow! _ Aray! Putangina__, _ Han!” Yifan yelped, head bending in an awkward position because Luhan didn’t have any consideration with their height difference. 

“Shhh!” Luhan hissed. “Mama Wu and Taozi’s asleep.” 

With the mention of Zitao, Yifan forced himself to shut up and calm down, trying to ignore the impending wave of his earlier internal drama that threatened to come rushing in with the mention of his son. Guilt flooded his system, mingling with the previous bitterness inside of him, creating somersaults in his system, making him dizzy as each second passed by. It seemed to come in waves, but with every return to land, it attacked the shore, bringing more and more with it every time. 

At the back of his head, a treacherous voice mocked him. _ “Thought you were _ present_, Yifan _ ?” it had said, the derision lacing each of its words. There he was earlier, claiming pride with the sense of composure, of _ stability _ , that he thought he had in his encounter with Vee, when he had been riding an invisible, _ impossible _ wave of nonchalance as he blocked all mentions of his son from his mind throughout the entire evening. 

The murky waves of guilt and bitterness turned acidic, sending poisonous fumes in the air, striving their hardest to overwhelm and suffocate him. Whatever they were doing was working, because as Yifan stilled, he felt the acrid waves drowning his chest, burning and biting him as they robbed him of the chance to breathe. Vee had mentioned his son earlier, and he didn’t even bother to acknowledge him with at least a single wince. There was nothing rational with how he acted earlier, with how he convinced himself thoroughly that what he had been doing was for a purpose, when he _ forgot _ that purpose. How could he just _ block _ off Zitao like that? How could a father _ not _ think of his son, when—

He was suddenly shaken from his thoughts, meeting Luhan’s eyes. The pangs of irritation that were there earlier were now gone, replaced with tinges of worry. With his brow furrowed, Luhan spoke slowly, as if approaching a scared animal. “Yifan? Are you… There?”

He nodded slowly. Almost _ too _slowly.

Still alarmed, Luhan scrunched his brow in thought, scanning over him, trying to find out what was wrong with him. Yifan’s tongue felt heavy in his mouth, and his lips wouldn’t cooperate, even though his brain was screaming to give his best friend some words of reassurance. He didn’t want to see how Luhan would react when he found out that he did that _ again _. 

He didn’t want to see how Luhan would react when he found out that he was _ like this _because of that again.

But Yifan remained quiet, trapped in a deep abyss that frankly, he was just too _ tired _ to try to climb out of. There was a silly voice inside of him that told him that procrastinating assuaging his best friend’s worries would be a smart move, considering that he wasn’t ready at the present. The logic that Luhan, of course, wouldn’t wait for him was lost to him—not until the distressed look in Luhan’s eyes suddenly morphed into that of _ pain _.

Yifan was too late, it appeared.

Luhan took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but his shaking shoulders betrayed the opposite. Due to some sort of miracle, and a tinge of guilt that woke up his senses even just a little bit, Yifan was able to guide them to the worn-down couch that occupied the center of the small living space. 

“Yifan…” Luhan started, but he cut him off, shaking his head. At first, it was about expressing his disagreement, but then, Yifan shook his head even more, trying to shake off the disorienting fog that was clouding his head.

“No,” Yifan said—to whom, he wasn’t really sure. He cleared his throat, and tried to look at Luhan directly in the eye, as what normal people did. He was far from being one of them, but he has always been an expert in acting. It was what let him to continue surviving in his job in the first place, anyway. “No,” he repeated, finally able to feel more like himself. But when he looked up to meet his best friend’s gaze, he found himself still not knowing who he was saying _ no _ to.

Luhan took his hands off him and faced away from him in favor of the crowded wall of their cramped house. The frames that contained both of their high school diplomas, childhood pictures, and the newer ones with Zitao’s toothless smiles greeted their eyes as they both decided that looking at the mess that hung on their walls were easier than trying to look directly at one another. It was _ too much _ for his best friend, Yifan guessed, and he understood that—Luhan was not the only one who has felt overwhelmed with him and his job. 

“_‘No,' _” Luhan echoed. “If I ask you if you… _ did that _… Would you answer the same?”

Yifan smirked, but the familiar smugness was absent. After a beat, he answered, “...no.”

Then, Luhan laughed, sadness overwhelming, choking every burst of laughter that came out of him. “_Putangina _,” was all that he said. 

“Twenty-five thousand, Han,” Yifan said quietly. “It’s enough to tide us over for the next month or so.” He even smiled at that, trying to reassure Luhan, even though he still refused to look at the other man. Still, he convinced himself that it was a small step of effort.

His best friend must have gotten the hint, and decided to go along Yifan’s sentiment, nodding silently. Perhaps, Yifan thought, Luhan was trying to convince himself too.

“Hey,” Luhan said, a small smile on his face—still sad, but there nonetheless—and elbowed Yifan beside him. “Guess we don’t have to worry about Taozi’s party, huh? Yixing would probably make a good clown, but no one can beat Jollibee.”

_ Party_. With that one word, Yifan was back to zero again. He forgot, he blocked it off, too consumed with the idea that he needed to get extra money that but he forgot exactly why— _ oh God, how could he _—

Luhan elbowed him again, this time harder, digging right into his ribs, making him inadvertently howl in pain, which his best friend glare at him. But Yifan saw the concern that didn’t even bother to hide in Luhan’s gaze. 

When he felt that his best friend was looking at him, Yifan let out a deep breath, the only step of reassurance that he could offer him right now, but Luhan looked content with that—or as content as one could be when you were with someone who was on the brink of a mental breakdown at any given moment.

Still, Luhan looked unfazed, even managing to smile at Yifan gently. “It’s 3 AM,” he said, pursing his lips to point to their shared bedroom door, where Zitao was sleeping. “I read somewhere that it’s around this hour that the demons come out.” Snickering, Luhan added, “You should go save your son before his real parents steal him away from you.”

“_Pakyu, _” Yifan replied, rolling his eyes and rising up to go to the bedroom, without sparing Luhan a glance.

Yifan’s mind was still hazy, his body exhausted with the turmoil that his body and his mind had been offering him, now that he was gathering his bearings, there were only two things that he was sure of: the only monster that had any claim to someone as pure as his Taotao was _ Yifan _ himself, and the only one doing the saving from monsters was _ his Taotao _ from Yifan himself.

* * *

Carefully, Yifan entered his shared bedroom with Zitao and Luhan, opening the door slightly to make sure that the door’s creaks wouldn’t wake up his son. It was the only bedroom in the house, small enough to comfortably fit only one person but necessity has always been the mother of creativity, so he, Luhan, and Zitao shared the room. His mother had converted the small, built-in closet beside the bathroom as her bedroom instead, leaving the master bedroom for the three. 

The bedroom was cramped, with two large bunk beds occupying both sides of the room, leaving almost no space for the room’s center. But thankfully, they managed to make it work, keeping Luhan’s study desk and Zitao’s play area without sacrificing anything. Both the top bunks of their beds weren’t used for sleeping anymore, in favor of making space for the accumulated things that didn’t fit in elsewhere—Luhan’s textbooks, Zitao’s stuffed toys, and the now-deflated basketball that used to be Yifan’s lifeline in high school, among others. 

At the end of Luhan’s side of the room was a tall, plastic cabinet wherein they kept the clothes that they wanted to keep decent, or at least, they needed enough to look proper that they weren’t immediately put at wherever space it was still available on top of their beds. The room was small, the space was limited, and yet all of Zitao’s clothes were put on that cabinet. Yifan and Luhan made sure of it.

If he could write down a list of things that he was thankful for, Yifan surely wouldn’t have much to write, but he would always be grateful that he had Luhan. They met when they were still masses of cells inside their mothers’ wombs, wherein Luhan tried to play soccer with him with kicking at all times when Yifan’s mother was around, and Yifan tried to ignore him by moving incessantly, rolling over and over, after Luhan’s kicks. His best friend was only ahead of him for about a few months, but when Yifan joined him, they were inseparable ever since. 

Even when Luhan’s mom died, and a one night stand straight out of high school gave him Zitao, they were never apart from each other. 

He counted himself lucky for that.

* * *

But his luck was limited. The exhaustion lingered on his joints, making them stiff as he tiptoed across the already small room. He struggled as he walked, every step making the burgeoning weight that seeped onto his entire body, pressing itself even more to him. In hindsight, it was ridiculous for him to struggle this way, like he was an elderly man crawling futilely from the clutches of Death. But with how he was living his life, and how life was treating him back, perhaps there was nothing much left in his future but to be that old man. There was no other way to skirt around it: he was just so _ exhausted _ . Twenty-four years of existence in this cruel world and all he could foresee were decades more of _ this. _

He spared a glance at his son, sleeping soundly while swaddled with the thick blankets with crocheted edges that his mother had made for the boy—a piece of fleeting luxury that they took the chance of and reserved for their favorite person. Even in the darkness of the room, only lit by the light that came from the open TV in the living room, Yifan could see his son’s sleeping face, his brow smooth with innocence and his lips pouted as he drooled on their pillow. Despite being encased in the _ kulambo _ that his mother insisted he set up, he couldn’t help but think that it wasn’t enough; he should build more walls, put up more barriers to protect his son. All he wanted was to scoop the boy in his arms, hold him close, and shelter him from all evil. It was a cruel, cruel, world—that he knew—but he was certain that among all the seven billion people in the world, Zitao didn’t deserve any of it. 

It would be logical for him to part the _ kulambo, _slide into the bed and join his son to sleep, but it was almost instinctive for him not to. There was something inside him, screaming, stopping him from going near Zitao, and as the toll of his evening dawned upon him again, it grew louder, more powerful, angrier, adamantly refusing to satisfy his whims. 

_ “You don’t deserve it,” _ it had said. He closed his eyes, unsatisfied with the still, dark silence of the room, trying to find his peace in the darkness behind his eyelids, but the storm inside him went on, and raged even more. Flashes of Vee’s smirk made their way across his mind—her legs parted, her lips open to release a salacious moan, her voice reaching a pitch he had never heard her use before, shrill enough to ring in his ears. Then it morphed to Hyunsuk kneeling beside where he knelt, his mouth mere centimeters away from his ears, whispering promises of a repeat of the early evening’s activities, as his fingers danced and crawled inches away from his crotch. It moved closer and closer, and when Hyunsuk reached out to grab, it was Yifan’s neck that felt the constraints, making him choke and sputter, unable to breathe. His head was swimming, and his vision was starting to drain out of him. Vee’s voice remained high, and it soared even more, ringing into his ears, deafening him until it was all he could hear.

But then, something broke the symphony that Vee was weaving, the slow drawl of a drunk man assaulting his ears, sending shivers creeping into his spine. _ “How dirty.” _ There was a smirk in his tone when he added, “ _ But it’s okay. Still pretty for me. _”

A soft yawn interrupted his thoughts, making his eyes flutter open and stumble, almost losing his balance. Luckily, he was able to catch it by leaning onto one of the posts of Luhan’s bunk bed, making him face to face with the full-length mirror that they kept beside the plastic cabinet. With the dim light from the TV outside, Yifan saw his son stretching out languidly, like a small kitten, before rolling over and sleeping more. 

He allowed himself to release a relieved sigh. He thought he had woken up the boy, and frankly, he didn’t know what he would do if he did—especially since there was no way for him to explain why his father was standing in the middle of the room, eyes closed while bullets of sweat rained down the sides of his forehead. There was simply no way for him to adequately explain why he was acting like a deranged man, why _ he wasn’t okay _. Zitao was a young, happy boy of only five years worth of life in this world, and Yifan didn’t want to taint those. He wasn’t allowed to; he was his father, after all.

Yifan looked at himself in the mirror once again, as he composed himself for the nth time that night. The light that peered into the room was minimal, but it was enough for illuminating the harsh lines on his face, the sharp contours hollowing his cheeks, and the dark circles underneath his eyes. He looked like a man a few steps away from his deathbed, afflicted with some illness that doctors and modern medicine were still eons away from being able to recognize. But the disease that he had was not concerned of that, rotting him from the inside, chewing him little by little until all that would be left of his was a spent-up, bitten apple core. 

He looked like a ghost haunting the living, an outsider spreading death amidst those enjoying life. This was not the man who deserved to be the father of a boy like Zitao Wu, and he rued the forces that dictated Zitao’s fate to be placed on his hands. 

Yifan might have counted himself lucky that he had Luhan, but he counted himself as the luckiest for having Zitao. He felt sorry for the boy who couldn’t be able to say the same for having him. 

Treading carefully to their cabinet, Yifan grasped blindly in the dark for something comfortable enough to wear to bed. He needed to shower, scrub off the dirt from his evening, and change his clothes before joining Zitao. Remembering the boy once again, he stole another glance at his sleeping form, memorizing the lines of the boy’s body, cementing him into permanence in his memories. 

Looking at Zitao, Yifan took a deep breath, the only one that he took in the entire night that he fully committed himself in _ feeling _ . There was a weight on his shoulders, and an alien void that continued to spread rottenness into his very core, attacking his mind, heart, and soul without mercy—but he knew that he shouldn’t let it win over him. He couldn’t be overwhelmed; he couldn’t _ lose _ against it. Always, _ always, _ he promised himself that he would get better, that he would try to continue fighting, but in the end, he bore witness to his defeat.

This night—more importantly—_his reaction _to this night was another episode of his losing game. He let himself be swayed again, providing more reason to power the worries that pervaded Luhan’s gaze every time his best friend looked at him. 

Long ago, almost five years ago in a week to be exact, he held a little boy wrapped in generic, hospital-issued clothes, heard the song of the universe in his first cry, and let his heart be swelled with the promise to protect the boy forever. 

And well, he hasn’t been honoring that promise lately, has he? 

But he has too, because no one else would—no one else _could._ _He_ was his father, after all.

* * *

_ The skies refused to be clear from the boulder on which he was perched on. They were gray, with a few dots of white giving hope for the sun’s entry. But it has been hours already. He has learned not to wait for more. Still, they were the only ones who accompanied him, or at least, the only one he _ chose _ . _

_ Under him, despite perhaps being a hundred meters away from his feet, the mist from the waves meeting the rocks tickled him, as if taunting him to join. Their susurrus were passionate lullabies to the shore, chasing the land so desperately as they continued to thrash and push away the constraints of the surrounding cliffs. Even though he was sitting meters away from the onslaught, he felt the ferocity that powered the waves. It wouldn’t do well to meet that kind of anger. _

_ So instead, he focused on the gloomy skies, which glossed over his childish anticipation for the sun, as they refused to be anything but gray. At least, he reasoned out, they were nice company—calm, serene, just uncaring, but never angry. They let him be in their presence without complaints, providing him a solace of stability. It was never comfort, never peace, never _ happiness _ —but at least, _ at least, _ there was silence. _

_ He couldn’t ask anything else for more. What he longed for was impossible, anyway. _

_ As he closed his eyes and faced the skies, letting the harsh coldness of the salty air kiss his cheeks, he took a deep breath and beseeched for gratefulness. He spread his arms in supplication, asking for contentment, flooding himself with the idea that _ again _ , what he wanted was impossible, irrational—it simply cannot be. Asking for more was stupidity in its finest; he had to be satisfied with the peace that he had, lest it prove itself to be momentary. He mustn’t move, mustn’t do anything to disturb this stillness, because he might never have it again. _

_ That was what he told himself, over and over, an endless loop echoing inside his mind that he stubbornly held on and didn’t permit to be silenced. _

_ Time passed. He didn’t know how many hours have come by, but the gray skies have turned into charcoal, waving off all of his irrational anticipation for the sun. The stars have taken pity on him, gifting him with light, as they twinkled above. He let himself be engulfed in the stillness of his surroundings, and the silence that sang deafening lullabies right into his ears. _

This_ was the calm that he needed, the one that he wanted. As the waves continued to collide ferociously with the rocks, steadfast in its pursuit of the shore, he enjoyed the tranquility that he managed to find himself in. Nothing, _ nothing _ could be better than this. _

_ But then, not far from where he was sitting, footsteps interrupted him. He turned to his side and saw a young boy, perhaps around four or five, wearing a ratty basketball jersey that was too large for him, probably nicked off an adult. His hair was buzzed, and the too-long hem of the jersey trailed after him as he stumbled. _

_ The child was barefoot and from where he sat, he could get a glimpse of the smattering of bruises on his back that peeked through the holes of the child’s jersey, a gross combination of blue and purple and yellow, like the failed experimentation of a disgruntled artist. Small bandages dotted his arms and legs, but they still weren’t enough to cover the cuts that littered the child’s limbs. There were some that were still left uncovered, the pink of the blood betraying the cuts’ freshness. They weren’t gruesome, however, unlike the festering, gaping wounds that featured in horror movies. The red and pink swirling around together, helping color the child’s pallor. How ironic that cuts and bruises would be the ones feigning color— _ health_—in someone? _

_ Perhaps the weight of his stare had gotten too much for the child, because he suddenly turned to where he sat, his returning gaze as piercing as the harsh contours of his face. It would have looked alien in a normal person, but for a child, it looked even more grotesque. His cheeks were sunken; his cheekbones jutting out in contrast. There were dark circles under the boy’s eyes that would have seemed natural, if not for the faint instinct that told him that those shadows were darker than what they should be. His lips were chapped, as if water hadn’t touched them in ages. They cracked a bit, letting the familiar crimson of blood peek through. To top it all off, his face had the same pallid complexion that he had in his entire body, but as it accompanied the child’s blank stare, it transcended from being unsettling to downright eerie. _

_ The boy kept looking at him, and as he looked back, he noticed that he wasn’t being given a blank stare. In fact, it was as if the boy was… waiting. Waiting for him to say something in return—to just do something. But he couldn’t, finding himself unable to move, glued to the rock that he was perched on. _

_ Still, despite the blankness of the boy’s stare, he could feel a sense of defiance behind it. It was as if he was being told that no matter what, the boy would stay there, undeterred and unmoving, letting him have the advantage of taking the next step. Of _ choosing _ . _

_ And he appreciated that. Somebody was giving him the chance to want, to decide, to _ control—_so he did. _

_ He nodded uncertainly to the boy, and still seeing his lack of response, raised his arm to wave at him slightly. It had the intended effect, but not the expected one. He had thought that the boy would just nod back, then return from whatever he was doing—if he was doing anything. But surprisingly, the boy cracked a smile, a large grin occupying his face. _

_ It was the first time that the boy looked anything other than the sorry state that he had when he first took him in, and he looked _ happy _ . The boy’s large smile masked the grotesqueness of his features, distracting him from the unsettled murmurs from his gut as the boy continued to look at him. Hope provided the red that colored his pallid cheeks, his hungry eyes twinkling. _

_ But he remained unresponsive, and as he watched the boy’s face dim, his smile slowly fading, he felt the urge to run to the boy, scoop him in his arms, and convince him that everything would be okay. But that would mean leaving the boulder he sat on, the stability he forged for hours, and convincing an unknown child of something impossible. _

_ He didn’t think he was ready for that kind of responsibility. Perhaps he’ll never be. _

_ Meanwhile, the child’s bottom lip quivered, his eyes slowly turning watery. He could see the child’s jaw clench, stifling his tears as his breathing hitched and started to stutter. It would be sad if not disorienting—because children weren’t supposed to know _ not _ to cry. _

_ But this boy did, continuing to look at him in despair, his eyes betraying the shred of hope that he was still holding on to. He wanted to shake his head and tell the boy to stop, because it would all be futile. Hope, especially on someone like him, was a farce, and a waste. He supposed it was because that was exactly what he was. _

_ Deep inside his gut, something tugged him and tried to push him closer to the boy, but he refused to be swayed by it. He curbed it down, and ignored it. He wasn’t going to leave, and run, and _ risk _ . Besides, he didn’t know this boy. What was the use of risking yourself for someone unknown? It was why he wouldn’t leave anyway, accepting the scraps of comfort he had found. He didn’t know himself either. _

_ The pull to the boy grew stronger, its incessant tugging vibrating even more, spreading throughout his entire body. His entire body was singing for the boy, thrumming like a flicked metal coil who won’t stop vibrating. It was as if his entirety screamed that he knew the boy, that he should run to him, but his mind still hadn’t caught up. _

_ So maybe he _ did _ know the boy. It was the same feeling he had with himself, anyway—and he knew that while he did not have the whole grasp of everything, at the most basic level, he _ had _ to know himself, right? _

_ Maybe that was enough to take the risk. _

_ He didn’t have the chance to, because the boy was already ahead of him. When he looked up to try and examine the boy again, he was gone. _

_ Ice filled his veins. Hurriedly, he knelt from where he sat, craning his neck to look at the raging waves hundreds of meters below him. There the boy was, looking like an outsider trapped in the turmoil of the waves. He had one of his little arms stretched towards his direction, but with the distance, he couldn’t discern his face anymore. _

_ The crashing of the waves swallowed the boy’s cries, his open mouth the only sign of his screaming. It wasn’t doing him any more favor too, as the boy continued to sputter out the saltwater that kept rushing into him. _

_ It wasn’t the first time that _ he _ felt helpless, but this was the first time that he was angry about it. He knew that there was nothing else he could do, but he couldn’t force himself to look away either. Maybe he had a role in this, maybe he was the one to blame—anything to give reason to the pull that, no matter what happened, still remained. _

_ And maybe the waves gave them mercy, or had just grown tired of trying to chase the shore that it stopped its furious humming, or what seemed more likely, he had lost his mind, but he thought he had finally heard and understood the boy’s scream. _

“Papa!” _ the boy had said. _

_ Yifan felt his world stop, stilling in shock, as he helplessly watched the waves swallow Zitao whole. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The excerpt in the beginning of this chapter is from Dear City by Conchitina Cruz. It’s featured in her collection Dark Hours, which was published in 2005. I’m pretty sure the author made her book publicly available online, but I can’t find the link she provided sorry :((
> 
> * _Moonlight_ is a fictional bar that I envisioned to be situated around the Malate area, which has a thriving red light district, no matter what the cutesy tourist guides tell you. I’m not entirely sure if the rates and the services that the real bars offer are similar to how Yifan’s getting paid, but I’d like to believe they aren’t being paid dust for their services.
> 
> * _Suki_is a term that refers to loyal customers, or similarly, the vendor or seller that you’re loyal to.
> 
> * The base rate that I wrote is five thousand Philippine pesos, which is roughly 100 USD.
> 
> * Sampaloc is a district in Manila. I’m not entirely sure if there are government housing projects there, but I was too lazy to Google where exactly they were located in Manila. It served as an accessible location, though, only around at least thirty minutes away from Ermita, where the hospital is located and _Moonlight_ is near by.
> 
> * _Aray_ is basically the Filipino translation for “ouch,” and _putangina_, is well, _putangina_. There’s no other way to translate the power of that word, so I’m sorry.
> 
> * Jollibee is a local fast food chain here in the Philippines, with a red bee as a mascot. All kids love it—both the food and the bee. (Still, their workers need to be regularized sksksk.)
> 
> * _Pakyu_ is, well, “Fuck you” spelled colloquially; I wrote it that way because I just felt like it packed more punch.
> 
> * _Kulambo_ is Filipino for “mosquito net.”

**Author's Note:**

> writing this fic, so far, has been emotional labor (haha), and it's been a while since i've finished this first chapter. but this fic is close to my heart, so i'm hoping to pick it up again soon! 
> 
> sorry i’m rambling. please feel free to comment below!


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